


Catch You On the Flipside

by Purplesauris



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Cuban Missile Crisis, Hanging, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mysterious!Geoff, Reincarnation, Reporter!Michael, Soldier!Michael, The major character death is when they go through their past lives, World War I, based on a tumblr prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplesauris/pseuds/Purplesauris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They live their lives across hundreds and hundreds of years, finding each other again only to be pulled apart once more. What was the point of remembering? What else mattered other than finding each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch You On the Flipside

**Author's Note:**

> I really really like reincarnation AU's, and this one is a bit different than others I've written. Can you tell I'm learning about US history right now with all the talk about world war I and the cuban missile crisis? As always, love the fic? hate it? Found a spelling or grammatical error? Want to request something? Tell me so at purplesauris.tumblr.com or right in the comments below!

The first time they parted was in the gallows in 1819, tattered clothes hanging loose around them while the rope remained fastened tight around their necks. They could see the angry crowd screaming for them to die, and Michael had to admit, it was exhilarating. Here he is about to die and he’s _still_ the only thing people can talk about. Michael smiles easily, reaches out and takes his partners hand. He doesn’t have to look to know the tired, smug smirk that’s on his face; Michael knows that face well, knows just what it takes to make him smile, or to frown. Knows what it takes to make him laugh or cry, and if he didn’t know better Michael would have thought his lover would be crying for him. He won’t. Not when they’re both about to be hung for high treason. Michael’s hand is wrenched away and tied behind his back, but Michael smiles still.

 

“We had a good run.” Michael mutters, eying the guards warily.

 

“We did fine as dicks, dude. We’re gonna die rich and happy.”

 

“Even though we’re fucking dying.” The man next to Michael laughs softly, Michael finally looking over at him. Lidded eyes are crinkled at the corners and bloodshot from a sleepless night in the jail, but happy nonetheless. His mustache is a little messy, but Michael can’t exactly do anything about it with his hands bound behind his back, so Michael settles for winking at him. “Too bad I couldn’t blow you one last time.”

 

The man's face twists and then he gives Michael an exasperated look. "You just had to say something. Now I'm going to be thinking about it till I die."

 

"I'll blow you in the afterlife." Michael says airily, looking away from him to the crowd. "Ten blowies if you last longer than I do."

 

"Oh you're on." The two fall silent for a moment before the mustached man speaks up. "I love you."

 

"Love you too, old man." The barrels are yanked from under the men's feet, and the rope pulls taut as they choke. Michael's head swims and he distantly hears a snap before his vision goes black, and he sees the man staring at him as Michael slips away. Damn, now Michael owes him.

 

~*~

 

The year is 1918, and Michael really doesn't feel like fighting anymore. Michael doesn't know how many times he's heard the clamor of bombs or how much longer he can stand the feel of the gun bucking in his hands. Michael charges through the battlefield no matter how he feels; he has a job to do, and he'll be damned if he dies before he completes his mission. Michael stands surrounded by bodies but he doesn't see them, doesn't feel the blood running from a cut on his forehead, doesn't feel the bullet embedded in his side. He feels the grit of sand in his mouth as he pants, kicking sand up as he runs along the beach. Michael hears a tremendous bang, and then he's tumbling down, falling into the sand as people scream and cheer with their victory. The air is cold with the promise of a harsh December to come but Michael feels heat rushing through him, and with a soft laugh he rolls onto his back and looks up at the sky.

 

Michael is carried onto the boat that will take them back to the U.S., and he rests easy. They patch him up as he fades in and out, and he sees a curled mustache behind his eyelids. Michael grunts when they dig the bullet out and clenches his fists when they stitch him back up. The rocking of the boat is comforting, and even though his side is killing him and he feels like he's been kicked over and over, Michael knows he won't have to go back out there. They'll discharge him for medical reasons and he can go back home. He won't have to feel the cold steel of his gun or hear the ringing in his ears any longer. Michael sleeps deeply for the first time since he was drafted, and when he awakes he sees the blurry face of his sergeant.

 

“Sir.” Michael croaks out, throat dry as he swallows and tries his best to stand. He grunts when pain shoots through his side and his general stops him with a raised hand.

 

“At ease. The war is over. You did it, son, you’re a hero.”

 

“I just did what was right for my country.” Michael says weakly, laying back as his side protests.

 

“And your country thanks you. Rest now, we’ll be home in a couple of weeks.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” Michael stares up at the ceiling of the infirmary while his general walks away, and he doesn’t argue when a nurse comes to check on him. Michael takes his pill like he’s supposed to, eats when the nurse asks him to, and above all, he rests. Minutes blur into hours and hours blur into days until Michael is transported from the ship and to the nearby hospital in Texas. Michael sits there in the hospital bed, feeling like shit and imagining the feeling of a gun in his hands as he idly messes with his dog tags. Michael’s hands shake a little bit, whether from the memory of the way the gun jerked or the fact that he hasn’t been taking his pain medication, Michael isn’t sure. Michael listens to the slight static that interrupts the radio, looks out the window and wonders what happened in the two years he was gone.

 

“Mr. Jones?” A soft voice speaks from the doorway, Michael looking up blankly while reaching over to turn the radio off. The nurse doesn’t look scared, just concerned, and she holds a paper cup that Michael knows is his medication. “Will you take some iron supplements, if you won’t take the pain medication?”

 

Michael hesitates for a brief moment, but then he nods, the nurse smiling and handing him the small cup. Michael takes the pills with a swig of water, handing the paper cup back. “News?”

 

“Everything is calm now, the soldiers are all coming home.” Michael nods, thumb rubbing over the letters on his dog tag. The nurse checks his vitals and changes his bandages in relative silence, biting her lip occasionally. Why was she nervous? “Mr. Jones.. There’s someone here to see you. I know you said you didn’t want visitors, but he’s very insistent. He says hes an old family friend.”

 

Michael frowns; he’d never met any so called ‘family friends’, but he shrugs and waves his okay. The nurse gives him a soft, shaky smile before hurrying from the room, going to let this family friend know they can come and ogle Michael. Michael purses his lips in displeasure as he thinks about the crowds of people that surrounded him while he was transported through the streets. Michael doesn’t want any of the fame that comes with what he did during the war; he murdered people in the name of his country, that’s all. He didn’t do anything noble. Michael settles back in the pillows, jaw clenched and side flaring up with pain as he turns the radio back on. Michael listens to the comforting voice of the man on the radio and the static for what seems like hours, laying there until he hears soft, calculated footsteps in the hallway near his room. Michael turns the radio off just to make a point that he heard the person walking no matter how hard they tried to walk silently, but he doesn’t look to the door when it opens.

 

“I don’t know who you are, but you’re no family friend.” Michael says plainly, looking at the ceiling and counting the particles of dust he can see.

 

“I might have lied to get up here.” A soft voice speaks, and Michael’s heart clenches as the beep of the heart monitor speeds up a little. “But I’m a friend.”

 

“That’s what you’re calling it now?” Michael snaps, grimacing when he moves too quickly trying to turn the radio back on. A calloused hand turns the dial for him, and the other hand presses him back into the bed with gentle force. Michael doesn’t like it at all. “Fuck off.”

 

“Still mad at me?”

 

“Yeah.” Michael spits out, looking anywhere but the man that takes a seat next to Michael’s bed. The room is filled with soft music that Michael distinctly remembers hating, but he doesn’t fight it when the man turns it up just a little bit louder. The man whistles along to the radio, foot tapping the beat out, and Michael grits his teeth, clenching his fists.

 

“Stop tapping. Now.” Michael hears the ticks of the grenade in his hand right before he throws it, the click of his gun when the clip is empty and there’s an enemy soldier two feet away, the dings of bullets hitting the metal barrier he was crouched behind.

 

“You’re not out there anymore, Michael. No grenades, no guns, just your dog tags and memories.”

 

“Very helpful.” Michael gripes, closing his eyes and pressing his fists in until he starts to see shapes behind his eyelids. “Why are you here? Why visit a broken war vet?”

 

“Because you left without saying goodbye.” The man says, like he’s talking about Michael going off to play poker with his buddies and coming back late. “That and you still haven’t made good on your bet. I won, remember?”

 

“Yeah.” Michael says, finally looking at a curled mustache and kind, tired blue eyes. “I remember.”

 

The man smiles, reaching over to thread their fingers together, Michael squeezing his eyes shut. “Hi Michael.”

 

“Hi Geoff.” Michael whispers, afraid to speak any louder, afraid that he’ll wake up and it’ll all have been just a dream. The hand that holds his, runs a thumb over his knuckles reassuringly, that’s real, Michael decides.

 

“I missed you.” Michael admits over the soft music, trying not to break down even though his voice shakes. “I think you were the only reason I was able to keep going after the first year out there.”

 

“Not your raging patriotism?” Geoff jokes, Michael laughing even though it makes his side hurt.

 

“Patriotism only gets you so far. Pretty soon you forget why you’re killing people, and by then you’re nothing more than a machine.”

 

“And you’re a well oiled machine?” Geoff comments, Michael shaking his head even when a smile tugs at his lips. Always the jokester.

 

“Just a man trying to protect those he loves.”

 

“I’m sure they’ll thank you graciously.” Geoff’s grip on Michael’s hand tightens, and Michael squeezes back, listening to the footsteps that stop outside his room and the soft gasp from the nurse.

 

“Lindsay, come in here. Please.” The nurse steps in, looking nervously at their clasped hands. Michael doesn’t let go, just opens his eyes and looks at her steadily. “Can I have those pain meds now?”

 

The smile that Michael gets is blinding, and Michael feels himself giving a small smile in return. “Right away Mr. Jones!”

 

Lindsay goes to get his medication, Geoff watching in silence before he tsks disapprovingly. “Haven’t been taking your medication, have you?”

 

“Pain helped me sleep.” Geoff shakes his head, looking incredulously at Michael.

 

“You’re weird as dicks, you know that?”

 

“You might have said it once or twice.” Michael agrees, Geoff laughing and shaking his head. Lindsay comes back in, smiling and closing the door behind her.

 

“Here you are, Mr. Jones. This stuff’ll kick the pain right out the door like a woman after she fights with her husband.”

 

Michael snickers and takes the pills, sitting back. “You can call me Michael, you know. Mr. Jones makes me sound old.”

 

“My boss doesn’t like when we use our patients first names. Says it’s unprofessional.” Lindsay quips, eyes bright with mischief. “But I’m not much of a professional. How are you feeling?”

 

“Like I got shot a couple weeks ago.” Michael deadpans, Lindsay’s nose wrinkling for a moment before Geoff starts laughing.

 

“Still a sarcastic asshole I see.”

 

“Only on Tuesdays.” Michael says proudly, Geoff giggling and trying not to laugh too loud.

 

“He’s feeling better, if he’s joking with you.” Geoff reassures Lindsay, Lindsay staring like a deer in the headlights. Geoff tilts his head when Lindsay doesn’t respond, and Michael frowns, waving his free hand in front of her face.

 

“Helloooo? Anyone in there?” Lindsay jumps when Michael snaps right in front of her nose, and she rubs the back of her neck.

 

“Sorry, it’s just.. You’re laughing.” Michael raises an eyebrow at that.

 

“Am I not allowed to?”

 

“No no, it’s okay, you can laugh all you want, it’s just nice to hear.”

 

“Careful Lindsay, or I’ll think you’re flirting.” Michael teases, Lindsay scowling but laughing goodnaturedly.

 

“Don’t let my boss hear you, or I’d never hear the end of it. besides, it seems like you’re already taken?” Lindsay looks at Michael’s hand in Geoff’s, and Michael shrugs with one shoulder.

 

“D’you think I’ll get lynched again?” Lindsay’s eyebrows go up at the word again, but she contemplates this seriously, sitting on the end of Michael’s bed.

 

“Depends on how open you are about it. I’d say yes, but you never know. You could get shot again.”

 

Michael flinches at the words, and Lindsay immediately apologizes, Geoff watching Lindsay coolly as he talks. “Thanks for the insight.”

 

Lindsay fidgets, looking down at her hands and biting her lip. “I apologize, I stepped out of line with that comment. I should go.. Check on other patients. Please excuse me.”

 

Lindsay hurries from the room and Michael scowls, huffing at Geoff and pulling his hand from Geoff’s. “You didn’t have to be a dick about it.”

 

“And what, let her make comments like that again? I’m not an idiot, Michael, I saw the way you reacted.”

 

“I’m fine.” Michael says tersely, slapping Geoff’s hand away when he reaches out. Geoff doesn’t react, just pulls his hand back and stands up.

 

“Take your medication, and listen to the nurses, asshole.” Geoff says, walking to the door without so much as another look in Michael’s direction. He leaves with the same quiet gait as before, and Michael yanks his dog tags off over his head, throwing them at the wall in anger. Michael’s side is numb from the medication, but he feels his side pulling uncomfortably at the stitches, so he sits back and turns the radio up louder.

 

Michael dies two days later from an infection that snuck up on him, tearing him apart from the inside while he laid in the bed. Michael watches the way the doctors talk worriedly about him, and he sees Lindsay’s scared face through the doorway. He closes his eyes and dreams about a compass, the arrow spinning wildly before stopping pointing due north. Michael starts walking.

 

~*~

 

The year is 1962, and Cuba has missiles. Michael knows because that’s all his reporter buddies are talking about. Russia is going to annihilate them all, and Michael doesn’t even care. Either they get the missiles out of Cuba or they blow up most of the United States and World War III starts. Michael is afraid to see what will happen. Miles assures him that the president will come up with something like he always does, but Michael ignores him in favor of staring at the T.V. and the black and white picture of president Kennedy.

 

“Effective at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning, a quarantine will be placed around Cuba to ensure our safety.”

 

“A quarantine? What good will that do us when the commies fire those damn missiles?” Michael’s coworker gripes, rubbing at his face before starting in on what has to be his tenth cup of coffee. Michael goes back to typing up a report.

 

“The president obviously has a plan.” Miles pipes up, Michael sipping from his cup while trying to ignore the others. Michael is supposed to have this report done within the hour. Michael jumps when someone taps him on the shoulder and he scowls, looking up at Ray’s smiling face.

 

“Boss wants you.” Ray says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the door that has ‘Mr. Fink’ painted in gold across the frosted glass of the office door.

 

“Burnie isn’t the boss?” Michael jokes, pushing away from his desk and standing up. Michael stretches, back popping after sitting for so long, and Ray just shrugs. Michael’s never met the elusive boss of the reporting company, never seen his face or heard him talk. It doesn’t bother Michael much. Michael trudges across the office floor, between desks and people chattering about missiles and war and Russia. he stops in front of the door and knocks twice, waiting until he hears a soft ‘come in’ before turning the knob and pushing the door open. “You wanted to see me?”

 

“Close the door.” Michael does as he’s told before he steps up to stand behind on the of chair in front of the desk. “Sit.” Michael does so slowly, staring hard at the back of the chair as his boss stares out the large window. Michael waits for his boss to yell at him for his work or to fire him or do something, but he just sits there in silence.

 

“Mr. Fink-”

 

“How are you, Michael?” Michael stops what he was about to say, watching as his boss turns around, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. Tattoos cover Mr. Fink’s arms and hands, and they're all a little faded with age. Hooded blue eyes look at him with a guarded curiosity, and Michael doesn’t understand why.

 

“Umm, fine? I’m still working on that report you asked for if that’s what this is about.”

 

“It isn’t.” Michael shifts nervously in the seat, wondering why he was called in then. Michael rubs the back of his neck the longer they sit in silence, not wanting to say something stupid but at the same time wanting to fill the silence somehow. “Do you know why I called you in here?”

 

“Because I’m such an awesome reporter that you want to give me a vacation?” Michael tries, Mr. Fink laughing and shaking his head.

 

“I have a job for you. I need you to go dig around in the archives, find out whatever you can on medical discharges from November of 1918.”

 

“Is that all, sir? Anyone in particular I’m looking for?” Michael asks, patting his pockets to see if he has his notebook. Michael jots down the date, looking up at his boss.

 

“Anyone who stayed in the hospital in Texas.”

 

“You got it.” Michael stands up and leaves when Mr. Fink waves him off, closing the door behind him. Ray is leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he waits.

 

“So?” Ray drawls, Michael tucking his notebook back into his pocket.

 

“He wants me to go dig through the archives.” Ray frowns in confusion, but tosses Michael’s keys to him.

 

“Might wanna hurry then, you only have a couple hours before city hall closes.”

 

Michael grabs his coat on the way out and shrugs it on, climbing into his car and starting it up. Michael pulls into midday traffic, listening to the radio as some old jazz station comes on. Michael whistles along even though he’s pretty sure he’s never heard this song before. Michael pulls up to city hall and parks, tucking his hands in the pockets of his coat as he shoulders the door open. Michael walks up to the receptionist that smiles politely at him, holding a finger up as she finishes what she was saying into the phone. She hangs up the phone and writes something down before finally acknowledging Michael.

 

“What can I do for ya?”

 

“I need to look at the archives for.. Medical discharges in 1918.”

 

“You got a month to go with that? Otherwise there’s gonna be a lot to go through.”

 

Michael looks at what he wrote down. “November.”

 

“Right this way.” The receptionist leads Michael to a back room, Michael sitting down at the table while the receptionist goes to get the right books. She comes back and plops a couple of books down, resting a hand on her hip.

 

“There ya go. You need anything, just ask for Lindsay. She’ll help you out.”

 

“Thank you.” Michael says politely, turning to the books and getting started immediately. Michael pours over the names and pictures; amputated, emergency surgery, PTSD, the list goes on and on. Michael doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and there aren’t many that are admitted to the hospital in Texas. One sticks out to Michael, and he freezes, staring at the entry. Michael scribbles the information down quickly and gets a copy of the picture from Lindsay before getting up, grabbing his coat and hurrying out. He doesn’t say a word to the receptionist, just hops into his car and takes off, driving as fast as he can to get back to the office. Michael comes storming in, people dodging him as he marches down the hall and onto the writing floor, Burnie and Miles stopping mid conversation as he passes by without a word.

 

Michael pushes past Ray when Ray tries to block his path to Mr. Fink’s office. “Michael, he said he didn’t want anyone to bother him!”

 

Michael ignores Ray, doesn’t bother knocking as he barges in, slamming the door shut behind him. “Is this some kind of sick joke to you? Do you get your rocks off on doing this to your employees?”

 

Michael holds his notebook up, seething as his boss looks at him calmly. “What did you find?”

 

Michael throws his notebook and the picture down on the desk, jabbing his finger over the name written in the notebook. “Michael Jones, 20 years old, discharged because of a bullet wound to the side. Died a week after arrival in Texas due to infection.”

 

“That’s why you barged into my office like a raging bull?”

 

“Why am I in the goddamn archive, Geoff? Why is it my picture next to that entry?” Michael demands, hands shaking as he pulls at his hair in frustration and kicks one of the chairs over.

 

“You called me Geoff.”

 

“That’s your fucking name, isn’t it?” Michael hisses, eyes narrowing when Geoff starts smiling.

 

“I never told you my first name.” Michael stops dead, staring wide-eyed at Geoff as he pulls the picture and Michael’s notebook closer, staring at the image of Michael in his military uniform.

 

“You don’t remember, do you, Michael? I thought that if you saw this it might jog your memory, but I guess I was wrong.” Geoff says, staring wistfully at the picture.

 

“This has to be some kind of joke I- I never served in the military! I wasn’t even born then!” Michael says in disbelief, knees giving out as his back slides down the wall. Michael stares at his hands, head aching with each beat of his heart.

 

“Michael, your nose.” Michael reaches up, touching his upper lip, fingers coming back bloody. Michael takes the tissue offered to him and he quickly covers his nose, not wanting to get blood on his shirt. Michael’s head feels like it’s about to burst and blood practically gushes from his nose, quickly soaking the tissue.

 

“What’s wrong with me?” Michael gasps out, taking more tissues to try and quell the rush of blood as Geoff stands up. He picks up the phone, dialing quickly and impatiently.

 

“I need an ambulance.” Michael listens to Geoff rattle off the address before gentle hands are tipping his head back. Michael coughs as blood flows down the back of his throat and he tries not to choke. “You die on me again and I am going to be pissed, you hear me?”

 

“I don’t want to die, Geoff.” Michael says pitifully, vision fading as his heart beats loudly in his ears. “I wanna live.”

 

“Then live, dammit. Don’t fucking do this to me.” Geoff retorts, and Michael can faintly hear sirens approaching as he weakly grabs for one of Geoff’s hands.

 

“Go north, okay Geoff?”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about, asshole?” Geoff says, frantically checking Michael’s pulse and pressing more tissues to Michael’s nose.

 

"North." Michael says, reaching out with bloody hands as he touches the compass tattooed on Geoff's arm. Geoff stares in mute horror as Michael's head lolls to the side and he goes limp in Geoff's arms.

 

"Michael? Michael c'mon buddy, you have to get up." Geoff checks for Michael's pulse, laying Michael down as he begins doing CPR. Geoff pumps Michael's chest before plugging Michael's nose and sealing their lips together, blowing air into Michael. "Don't die here, asshole. Not now. Not yet."

 

Geoff sees the paramedics rush in, sees Ray's worried face as Geoff stands up, backing away from Michael's pale form. The medics are working to get his heart beating again, to get him breathing, but it isn't working. They rush him to the hospital, but by the time they get there it's too late. His heart hasn't been beating for a few minutes, and they pronounce him dead at the scene, before they even got him to the hospital. Geoff stares at his bloody hands and the smear of blood on his arm, standing outside Michael's room at the hospital. Ray stands there next to him, looking inexplicitly sad as he places a friendly hand on Geoff's back.

 

"You okay boss?"

 

"No."

 

"Did he mean something to you?" Ray asks, using a wet wipe to clean off Geoff's arm and hands.

 

"He meant everything to me."

 

~*~

 

The year is 2015, and Michael remembers everything. He remembers getting lynched in 1819, he remembers being shot and dying of an infection in 1918 after Geoff walked out. Most of all he remembers dying in Geoff's arms in 1962, during the Cuban missile crisis when everyone was sure they would die from a nuclear bomb. The one thing Michael doesn't know is _how_ he died that day in Geoff’s arms. The last thing he remembers before he told Geoff to go north was seeing his face in the archive files. Past Michael didn't remember Geoff or anything that happened before, and he assumes it was like a clean slate. A chance to start over if he wanted. But they came together again regardless, and the universe saw fit to rip Michael away once more. Michael is kind of tired of the whole 'I can remember my past lives and I keep reincarnating with the same name and face' deal.

 

Michael walks into the AH office with slumped shoulders and the familiar ache of too many memories jabbing into his skull, giving Burnie a hello on his way in. Michael snags a cup of coffee from the kitchen in lieu of a red bull and sits down at his desk, rubbing his temples in hopes of warding off a lurking migraine.

 

"Hey Michael." Ray greets from his own desk to Michael's left, Michael waving hello. Ray remembers the last life he had too, but he doesn't seem to struggle with it at all. When Michael asked him about it once Ray said that he just accepted it was a part of him, that in some ways it was him, and all the headaches and nosebleeds stopped. Michael wishes it was that simple for him. No matter how much he think he's gotten over it, he hangs on that one last detail. _How did he die in 1962?_ Geoff won't talk to him about what happened, and he isn't bothered by headaches or nosebleeds either, so Michael knows he's accepted his other lives. "If you stop thinking so hard about it your head won't hurt."

 

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen." Michael snaps, leaning back in the chair with a soft grunt of pain.

 

"Seriously, dude, why does it matter so much?"

 

"Do you remember how you died?" Michael replies, Ray falling silent at that. They both know how Ray died, and it wasn't pretty, but Ray remembers, he can accept it and move on. Michael can't.

 

"I'll talk to Geoff for you." Ray says quietly when he sees how bloodshot Michael's eyes are when he opens them. Michael nods his thanks and goes to grab a tissue, blotting at the small drops of blood coming from his nose. Michael recalls his first meeting with Geoff when Michael was first hired at Roosterteeth; Burnie had introduced them, knowing full well that they both remembered, and then mysteriously disappeared. Michael didn't know what to say. Geoff had all the same tattoos, save for new ones on his fingers, and Michael was speechless. That was by far the slowest they'd ever found each other; usually they met during teenage years, but Geoff was born a decade before him and lived in Alabama. Michael was a Jersey boy through and through until he started working for Roosterteeth and he moved to Austin.

 

Michael feels someone touch his shoulder and he shakes the memory off, holding the tissue to his nose while turning. Lindsay looks at him worriedly, holding out a box of tissues. "You bled through already. Are you sure you shouldn't go to the doctors?"

 

Michael takes another tissue and covers his nose again. "I think I might need to go to the hospital." He admits, feeling nauseous and weak as his head pounds.

 

"Okay." Lindsay says, taking his hand as they walk through the building towards the parking lot. Michael heard a panicked cry of his name and then he's pulled away from Lindsay, held tight as lips press to his ear.

 

"I'm going to kick your ass if you do this again." Geoff says lowly, Michael trying to catch his breath.

 

"Do what?" Michael breathes, too weak to protest when Geoff hooks an arm under Michael's knees and lifts him up. Lindsay holds the door open while Geoff maneuvers out, heading to her car.

 

"Die." Geoff says quietly, setting Michael in the backseat before going to get in the other side of the car. Geoff takes the box of tissues Lindsay offers, handing a couple to Michael.

 

Michael's heart thumps as Geoff smoothes his hair back and frowns. "You said again. Is this how I died?"

 

"Michael-"

 

"Please, Geoff. Please tell me, because I can't stand not knowing."

 

Geoff's expression crumples and he sighs heavily, Lindsay nodding at Geoff when their eyes meet in the rearview mirror. "It started with a bloody nose. You were in my office and you were yelling at me because I purposely had you find one of your past lives in the archive and you didn't understand. There was so much blood coming from your nose and it wouldn't stop."

 

"Geoff called an ambulance for you." Lindsay chimes in, Geoff nodding.

 

"I tried to do CPR, to make your heart beat again, but you were laying there in my arms and I couldn't help you. The paramedics tried too, but they pronounced you dead at the scene. They said you died of a brain aneurysm, and that the nosebleed was just coincidence."

 

Michael closes his eyes, sighing in relief. The puzzles pieces in his scrambled head snap together cleanly, and Michael has the whole picture again. "Thank you." Michael murmurs, squeezing Geoff's hand when he hears a muffled sniffle.

 

"We're here. Get him out of the car, Geoff, I'll go on ahead." Michael feels Geoff lift him up and out of the car, and he feebly tries to open his eyes. Geoff rushes in through the automated doors of the ER, looking around frantically until he spots Lindsay. A couple of nurses rush up and have Geoff set Michael on a stretcher, Michael leaning over the edge and vomiting. The nurses aren't phased by it, they just press him back into the stretcher and wheel him off. Michael stares up at the fluorescent lights as a doctor flashes lights in his eyes and starts asking him a bunch of questions. He answers what he can, but there’s cotton in his head, and it’s hard to think.

 

“Geoff?” Michael croaks, looking around the unfamiliar room as doctors do some sort of test on him. “Geoff?” Michael asks louder, catching one of the doctors hands when they go to listen to his heart. “Where’s Geoff?”

 

“I don’t know who Geoff is, sir. Please, relax while we run some tests.”

 

Michael shakes his head even though it makes his head hurt and his stomach roil, struggling weakly against the doctors. “I don’t want to be alone. I want Geoff here.”

 

“Sir you need to lie back right now.” The doctor demands, Michael protesting while his vision blurs. “We’ll get Geoff, you just need to calm down.”

 

“Right now.” Michael demands, coughing while his body jerks, the blood coming from his nose slowly stopping.

 

“He’ll be here when you wake up.” Michael doesn’t have time to ask why he’s going to be asleep in the first place before his world drops away, body going lax as he passes out.

 

~*~

 

Geoff paces the waiting room, blood on his hands and shoulders shaking with suppressed tears. Lindsay tells him to go wash up and Geoff quickly scrubs his hands in the bathroom, not wanting to miss when the doctor comes out. Geoff runs a hand through his hair once all the blood is gone, going back to pacing around the row of chairs set up off to the side. Lindsay doesn’t say anything for a few moments before she catches Geoff’s hand, eyes wide with fear. “Will you sit with me?”

 

Geoff immediately takes a seat beside her, holding her hand and letting her rest her head on his shoulder. “What are you thinking Linds?” Geoff mutters, foot tapping the ground as Lindsay sniffles and wipes tears away.

 

“‘Bout 1918. He died in front of me then, too.”

 

“He isn’t dying. Not this time.” Geoff says fiercely, Lindsay jumping at the outburst. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

Lindsay relaxes, laying her head back on Geoff’s shoulder while he squeezes her hand reassuringly. “How come it’s always been him? Why does he get all the problems, but never any of us?”

 

“I don’t know. I wish that it wasn’t him. God knows he’s never done anything that makes him deserve all this shit.” Lindsay nods her agreement, too worn out from crying and panicking to say much of anything. Geoff leans his head against hers, sighing. “You ever think that maybe the reason we remember is so that we can fix a past mistake?”

 

“Doesn’t help if we don’t know what the mistake is.” Lindsay mumbles, staring at the clock across the room.

 

“I always left him. He died before I did in 1819, I got angry and left him at the hospital in 1918. I was never even there for him in 1962, and now? I kept his past a secret from him because I was selfish, and now I’m afraid to leave the hospital.” Geoff whispers, tilting his head back and rubbing at his right eye. “He has to get through this. I don’t know if I could stand to lose him again.”

 

“You’re here for him. I think all we can do now is hope.” Geoff nods and sits back. Lindsay falls asleep resting against Geoff while Geoff watches the hour hand on the clock spin round and round, hours dragging on until the sun is setting and the stars come out.

 

“Geoff Fink? Lindsay Tuggey?” Geoff blinks and looks up at the doctor, sitting up quickly while Lindsay grumbles a protest, yawning and jolting up when she sees the doctor. “Mr. Jones was asking for you both. You’re also listed as Michael’s primary contact, Mr. Fink.”

 

“How is he? Is he going to be alright?” The doctor waves him up, Geoff immediately following as the doctor leads him towards the ICU.

 

“We had him get an MRI, and we found this.” The doctor shows Geoff a picture, pointing to an odd deformity. “It appears to be a brain tumor, and while it isn’t fatal, it is harming him. We’re going to take him to surgery to remove the tumor tomorrow afternoon.”

 

“He’s sleeping? How in the hell is he asleep?”

 

“We had to give him a mild sedative. While visiting hours are technically over, I figured you would be staying overnight with him?”

 

“I am.” Geoff says firmly, Lindsay peering into Michael’s room before the doctor catches her attention.

 

“You’ll have to come back tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

 

“It’s okay. I’ll bring you a change of clothes tomorrow. Night Geoff, tell Michael I hope he recovers soon.” Geoff nods distractedly, tilting his head when Lindsay kisses his cheek. The doctor motions for him to go in, telling him they’ll bring him a couple of blankets soon. Geoff steps into the dark room, closing the door behind him. There’s something about seeing someone you love in a hospital bed that makes your body just, shut down, because Geoff’s knees nearly give out when he looks at Michael laying there. Geoff drags a chair up next to Michael’s bed, taking Michael's hand and kissing his fingers.

 

“How many times are you going to bleed in my arms? Doesn’t it get boring after the first time?” Geoff listens to the soft whoosh of Michael’s breath and the beeping of the heart monitor for an answer, but as expected, he doesn’t get one. “You gotta get better, buddy. Fight, Michael, or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

 

“Kinda hard when you’re talking all the time, old man.” Geoff could cry at hearing the snarky response, tears pricking his eyes. Michael smiles tiredly at Geoff, Geoff laughing wetly.

 

“You had me worried sick, asshole. You still haven’t made good on the bet you owe me.”

 

“Heaven forbid you don’t get one of Michael Jones’ famous blowjobs.” Michael agrees, Geoff laughing again and wiping at his eyes.

 

“I could kiss you right now, I’m so happy.”

 

“Then why don’t you?” Geoff gives him a look and settles for kissing his knuckles.

 

“Because you’re laying in a hospital bed, dumbass.” Geoff murmurs against Michael’s skin, Michael snorting and tugging until Geoff scoots closer. Michael leans over and kisses the corner of Geoff’s mouth, Geoff giving him an exasperated look. “That wasn’t an invitation to prove me wrong.”

 

“I know, but I love the face you make when I do.” Michael teases, laying back in bed. “Why does my head hurt so much?”

 

“You have a brain tumor. Your surgery is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”

 

“Mkay. Gotta fill out insurance forms, don’t I?”

 

“Eventually, yes. Just focus on getting better for now. No more dying before me, you hear?”

 

“I dunno, that sounds like a challenge.”

 

“Michael.” Geoff says in warning, face completely serious even though Michael rolls his eyes and squeezes Geoff’s hand.

 

“Calm down. There’s no way I’m dying yet. They’ll all say I ragequitted life, and that sure as hell is not happening.” Geoff’s shoulders slump in relief, and Michael looks out the window at the bright lights of Austin. “Besides, even if I did die, we’d just see each other again. Face it man, you’re stuck with me.”

 

“Well there go my Tuesdays.” Geoff jokes, Michael snickering and gingerly resting his head back against a pillow.

 

“D’you think we finally did something right this time around?”

 

“You say that like it’s ending already.”

 

“Nah, I’m gonna live till I grow old and fat. Just wondering.” Michael murmurs.

 

“Call it wishful thinking, but I think we’re doing fucking fantastic.” Michael squeezes Geoff’s hand, closing his eyes while a soft smile curves the corners of his mouth.

 

“I think we are too, Geoff. I think we are too.”

  
  



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